


Teach Me, (Never) Say Goodbye

by DeathByJumpingFrenchman



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alex and John being my dead gay sons, Angst and Fluff, Angst with a Happy Ending, Don't kill me for that, Drawing, F/F, I Wrote This While Crying, In honor of the inauguration, Like, M/M, My summary is literally the first line of the fic, Other, Sadness, Stress, Which made us all sick to our stomaches, but its there, it's not mentioned once, mullette is only tagged because it's happening in my brain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 22:33:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9405797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathByJumpingFrenchman/pseuds/DeathByJumpingFrenchman
Summary: Alex is sitting and staring blankly at the wall when John gets home and the fact that Alex is there at all is his first clue that there's been a problem.---Trump is officially president and Alex reacts in an unexpected way John really should have seen coming. But they'll work it out.(Right?)They always do.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This goes out to anyone feeling sad, alone, or overall upset that today marks the end of an era many of us grew up in. 
> 
> This is also in honor of the Women's March on Washington and it's Sister Marches, which I hope some of you will be attending tomorrow (even though this has nothing to do with that). Now is the time more than ever to stand with your peers and fight for social justice. 
> 
> On a less serious note, Hi! You may know me as the author of the weird reader insert fic that keeps popping up in your feed because I put it under the Lams tag.
> 
> Well. 
> 
> Turns out I put my feelings not into an unrealistic piece of trash. 
> 
> But into this angsty piece of trash.

Alex is sitting and staring blankly at the wall when John gets home and the fact that Alex is there at all is his first clue that there's been a problem. 

 

John walks cautiously inside, turning over the possible reasons why Alex isn't at work, isn't typing up an essay or blog post or rant about "that motherfucker John Adams".

 

It's scaring him to see Alex so still. Even when he's asleep, Alex is never still, he's always twitching, shifting, running away desperately from the rest he most definitely needs. It's annoying, yes, but it's also incredibly endearing, and John has forgotten how to sleep in stillness. 

 

John sits down softly, says hello, looks at Alex. His face is blank and impassive and so very not Alexander Hamilton and John is on the brink of tears because _no, nothing is wrong with Alex, whatever it is we'll get through it._

 

He is surprised at the sharp intake of air, surprised that he's even breathing. 

 

"I can't." 

 

After three minutes of complete silence Alex utters those two words, and while John is relieved he is still alive, his heart begins to pound it's way to his ears because _Alex never gives up_. 

 

Not when Jefferson From Work convinced Washington to not approve his immigration bill twenty nine times in a row, not when rumors leaked out that he was cheating on John with Maria Schuyler, not when he broke his arm trying to paint the ceiling. 

 

He snuck into Jefferson's house to steal every left sock he owned, he hacked the office security cameras and published twenty-four hours of surveillance feed of him sitting at his desk and sleeping in his office on the day of the alleged affair, and he climbed up again after getting his cast and promising the doctor to stay far, _far_ away from ladders and finished painting it a violent purple that was supposed to turn out lavender (' _I like it better this way._ ' ' _Me too_ '). 

 

"What?" He whispers, and he wishes Alex could turn to him, look at him, give him _something_. 

 

"It's not..." Alex trails off, for a moment, as if not wanting to continue. Alex always wanted to continue, he always needed go continue, he _always continued_. 

 

"What's wrong?" John reaches out to take Alex's hand and the shorter man pulls away as if burned. He shifts a fraction to look at his hand, surprised at its sudden mobility. John tries to push down the hurt. 

 

"I can't." Alex repeats, and for the first time, John notices the TV is on, just turned down to a low mumble and he immediately picks up on the White Hou-

 

Oh. 

 

"Alex?" John whispers tentatively, and this time when he looks at the shorter man he can see that his eyes are red and dry and he's still, so still, he's not even shaking and John wants, no, _needs_ to break the glass, spark something back to life. 

 

It didn't make sense. 

 

After that day in November, Alexander had been the first to recover. Throwing himself into his writing, ranting endlessly, telling everyone it was going to be fine, that they'd stop it, that they'd fight him every step of the way. 

 

He promised to write essays. 

 

He took it upon himself to speak for those who would not speak for themselves. Just when John thought he couldn't love him any more than he already did. 

 

But now, John looks into his eyes and he's so scared, so small and fragile even though he has done nothing to make his appearance more minuscule than it needed to be. 

 

"I'm an immigrant." 

 

John's head snaps up and he's relieved, and he wants to tell Alex that he knows that, but he keeps going. 

 

"I'm Latino. I'm openly bisexual. Some of my best friends are women, almost all of them are minorities, Lafayette's non-binary." At this point, Alex's voice should be raised, he should be screaming, he _should not be quiet, he should not be monotone, come on Alex, shout, shout and throw things,_ please _, just be_ Alex _._

 

There is silence for a few seconds more. 

 

"You're gay." His voice finally, finally cracks with emotion and John takes back everything, because _God_ , does Alex sound broken. "You go to every Black Lives Matter rally that you can find." 

 

There is something heavy in the air between them and it tastes like gun powder. 

 

John doesn't know how to make it better. 

 

He sits, stares at the wall. 

 

Sits with Alex. Stares at the wall with Alex. 

 

Everything important in his life this far has been with Alex. 

 

And that comforts him. 

 

Because that's something no one can ever take away. 

 

Alex and John. 

 

John and Alex. 

 

They're together, don't you know. 

 

They'll be together through war, in a past lifetime John's sure they have already. 

 

They'll be together through laws soon to be instituted. 

 

They'll be together through this. 

 

John picks up the notepad lying on the coffee table that they keep there in case someone gets inspiration from the TV and they aren't around their phones or laptops and hands it to Alex, places it on his knees and slowly slides over to him. 

 

He puts a hand slightly above his shoulder, asking permission. He almost misses Alex's tiny inclination of his head. 

 

His arm drops onto the shoulder, slides down until his hand is resting on top of Alex's, and repeats with the other arm until Alex is wrapped in his arms and he can mold his hands. 

 

He takes the pencil from behind Alex's ear, gently takes his right hand once more, and brings it to the paper. 

 

Alex doesn't know what he's doing but John does. John guides his hand, helping Alex make stroke after stroke on the paper until resting upon it, slightly crooked, is a heart with JL+AH written in the center. 

 

Alex doesn't know what he's doing, drawing is not hit forte, but it's John's specialty, and the picture they created together is lumpy and hidden and beautiful. 

 

Alex retracts his hands, leaning back into John's chest, taking the paper with ferocity and erasing. 

 

For a moment, John's heart stops because oh god, has he done something wrong? But then Alex is creating again, wether it's drawing or writing is anyone's guess. 

 

For a moment, John stares at the words as if they're a code he needs to translate. In a way, they are. 

 

The letters he wrote towards the end are softer, hesitant, and John realizes it's a question. 

 

JLH+ALH. 

 

Hands shaking, John takes the pencil once more and traces over any faint, doubtful letters until they are bold, powerful. 

 

 _Yes_ , the picture seems to scream. 

 

Alex turns around and finally, _finally_ faces him, his eyes brimming with tears and questions and love. 

 

"Just ask." John says softly, brushing back a piece of hair and smiling at the beautiful human being in his lap. 

 

"Will you-" Alex's voice catches, emotion climbing up his windpipe. "Will you marry me?" His voice is quiet still, but finally, _finally_ he's shaking, and finally, _finally_ his words are passionate, and finally, _finally_ , it's going to be okay. 

 

"Of course, love." John whispers as he tugs his boyfriend-no, fiancé into a full embrace and feels him sob against him. 

 

"I'm scared." He doesn't need to hear it, he already knows, but hearing Alex admit it, he tightens his grip and peppers kisses to the line where his hair meets this forehead. 

 

"Me too." He sighs. 

 

"But we're gonna get through it, right?" Alex has his arms wrapped around him now, and he feels safe, so safe, and warm. 

 

"Together." John promises. 

 

The first thing they hang up in their new apartment is a copy of their marriage license, because that's something no one can ever take away, no matter what they tell them. 

 

The second is a piece of note paper with a heart scribbled on, their new initials in bold, and one word written in nearly a dozen different handwritings at the bottom: 

 

Home. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm projecting onto the founding fathers again. Whoopsie daisy. 
> 
> Anyone who loves these adorable human disasters is a friend of mine, so I offer you a pillar of support if you want to spam the comment section with rants about social inequality to a total stranger. 
> 
> I hope anyone who doesn't have people to help them through today if they're struggling finds even an ounce of comfort here. 
> 
> This community is so loving and open and willing to kill anyone who misgenders Lafayette, so thank you for being a part of that even just by reading this.


End file.
